us? Or was he of a mind to rejoin the church, viewing our visit as a hindrance to that goal? Was the disdain he felt the day I left still seething? My heart clenched at the thought. His last words to me still reverberated often in my thoughts, that bitter, biting tone. I thought we had a jewel this time. The last thing I wanted was to dredge up bad memories for him. If he showed any sign of being upset at our presence, we would leave immediately.
But there were no such signs. The head of his bed was elevated, and when I approached, he looked over at me with recognition and welcome. I couldn’t understand almost anything he tried to say at first—he was so weak, his mouth so dry, his voice so far from the booming proclamations he had delivered from the pulpit all those years. But his eyes seemed aware, and he laughed at me when I tried to interpret his words. I gave him water when he pointed to his glass, and told him that Grace had come to see him, too. She came in a minute later.
We sat next to him on his bed, me by his side, she near his feet. We realized quickly that he was in and out of lucidity. In his mind, he seemed to be preaching in front of a congregation. He asked me to pass out the hymnals. He wanted to sing. I knew the song as soon as he started quoting the lyrics: When peace like a river attendeth my way / when sorrows like sea billows roll. I searched YouTube and pressed play. “It Is Well With My Soul.” A friend would tell me later that it was a popular funeral hymn. The three of us sang along with the music, Gramps oblivious to the tears pouring down our faces. He prayed to God in thanks for the church and for His help. I held his hand while he started to preach a wedding sermon.
A little time, and he seemed to be in a different place mentally.
“Brothers and sisters,” he said gravely, “I hope you believe that I’m doing my best, and that I’ll continue to do more with pleasure and privilege. I’m not a threat.” He looked at me. I told him that I believed him, and squeezed his hand tight. I imagined him at the center of one of those godforsaken disciplinary meetings. I hated their self-righteousness. I hated their sociopathic lack of empathy. Whatever God there might be, He was not in that place.
Gramps didn’t seem to understand where he was until I told him about Libby. She had just given birth to her first child, a son. Paxton, meaning “peace.” I showed him a photo, and he seemed to snap back to the present immediately. “Was he born yesterday?” he asked.
“Two days ago,” I said. I told him we would all come back to see him tomorrow.
He said, “I remember her as a sweet little baby. Just a little baby. And now she’s a mother.” He asked how old she was now.
He looked at Grace and said, “Mama.” He was asking about Gran. I told him that Gran loves him very much. His eyes found mine instantly and he said, “She said that?” I nodded and said yes. I’d heard her say it many times.
“Such a beautiful woman,” he said. “I can never get over how beautiful Gran is. She’s in all you grandchildren and great-grandchildren. So beautiful.” He looked at Grace. “You look so young.” He told her she looked tired. “You need to find a place to lie down.”
He thanked us for coming to see him. He asked if we’d come back and said that he wouldn’t hold it against us if we did, joking like his old self. I kissed his forehead, and he looked at me and said that we were wonderful grandchildren. Just wonderful. That we always were.
“Special,” he said. “So special.” I hugged him for a long time and cried with my cheek pressed against his chest. He lifted his hand and held my face while I did. And when I stood up, he motioned me down as if to kiss me. I put my cheek to his lips, and he kissed it several times quickly, the way he always had. “Muah, muah, muah, muah, muah.” I did it back.
He looked at Grace and said, “Sugar, I just want you to know that I love you.” She